The Corsican Gambit

by Sandra Marton

  This was Francesca's second visit to the Casino, and the liked it no better this time than she had the last.

  "Isn't it elegant?" Charles asked in a low voice as he led her into the foyer.

  She nodded, although she wasn't sure that was the word she'd have used to describe the place. Everything was larger than life, from the nymphs cavorting across the frescoed ceilings to the gilding that gleamed on almost every surface.

  Crowds milled around the roulette and baccarat tables, intent on the spin of the wheel, the turn of the card, and the croupier's rake. Voices murmured imprecations to the dice in every language.

  Charles paused at none of the gaming tables. He led her, instead, to a salle privee. The private room was even more ornate than the main salon, and a very different crowd played at its tables. Francesca recognized some of the faces from the chic magazines that chronicled the lives of international jet set, others from the moneyed strata in which her brother moved in New York. The air of gaiety and excitement was catching, and all at once she was glad they'd come.

  "This looks like fun," she said. "What shall we try first?" But Charles wasn't listening. He was peering in­tently around the room.

  "First," he said, frowning, "we find the Marques: " Francesca's spirits dipped. "Can't we just buy some chips and play? Surely we don't have to-"

  "Ah! There he is." Charles put his arm around her waist and drew her forward. "Now remember, darling, treat him nicely."

  Charles's assessment proved to be accurate. The Marques was surrounded by an entourage. But the moment he saw her, his face lit, he held out his hand, and, between the steady pressure of her stepbrother's fingers in the small of her back and the accommodation of the crowd, Francesca was drawn to his side.

  "It is good to see you, my dear." There was an unc­tuous tone to his voice that set Francesca's teeth on edge. "We searched everywhere for you last night, your charming brother and I "

  "Did you?" She smiled politely. "Your villa was so crowded-we must have just missed each other."

  "Yes, so Charles informed me. Well, I'll have to make certain I keep you at my side all evening, then. We cer­tainly don't want the crowd to separate us again."

  Francesca stiffened as his hand slid from her wrist to her elbow, then down again. His fingers closed tightly around hers, but not before she felt the swift brush of his thumb against her palm.

  "There's no danger of that," she said quickly. "I'll be with Charles."

  The smile slipped from the Marques's florid face. "You'll be with me, my dear. Surely your brother made that clear."

  Her mouth tightened. "I think you must have mis­understood."

  "Antonio." A woman beckoned languidly from the baccarat table. "Aren't you going to play?"

  "Si, of course." His hand tightened on Francesca's, and he drew her along with him to the gaming table. "I was only collecting my good-luck charm."

  Everyone laughed-everyone except Francesca. She looked around for Charles, but her stepbrother had dis­appeared into the crowd.

  "Well?" She blinked. The Marques was looking at her and smiling. "The cards," he said, nodding to the one lying on the table before him, "what do you think? Shall I hold? Or shall I ask for another?"

  "I don't know very much about baccarat..."

  He laughed as he looped a beefy arm around her waist. "A beautiful woman doesn't have to know anything except how to charm a man. And I am certain you excel at that."

  Francesca stiffened. "Excuse me, she said, "but I must find my..."

  Her words drifted to silence. The hair on the nape of her neck rose. She could feel someone's eyes on her.

  No, not someone. She knew who she'd see even before she turned. Her heartbeat quickened. It was the man who'd followed her into the garden the night before. He was standing on the far side of the room, leaning against a gilded pillar. He looked relaxed and casual, with his arms crossed against his chest, but there was nothing relaxed about the way he was watching her.

  Francesca could feel the heat of his gaze even at this distance.

  Time seemed to halt. The sounds that had just se­conds ago filled the room-the murmur of the crowd, the discreet calls of the croupiers, the clink of chips ­they all faded, leaving behind only the swift thud of her own heart.

  A little smile twisted across his face, as if he had heard it, too, and then, suddenly, the crowd shifted and he was gone.

  "Maravilloso!" The Marques's voice was plummy with good humor. "Look at what you have done for me, Francesca," he said.

  She blinked and looked down at the table. The croupier was pushing a large stack of chips toward her.

  "Mademoiselle, " he said politely.

  She shook her head. "They're not mine."

  The Marques chuckled as he leaned forward and un­latched her evening purse. "Of course they are," he said, sweeping the chips into its silken depths. "You're the reason I won."

  "But I didn't-"

  "Nonsense." His arm settled around her again. She could smell the cloying scent of his cologne mixed with the smell of sweat. "Charles was right," he said, smiling into her eyes. "You are adorable."

  She felt a flush rise in her cheeks. "Senor..."

  "One more deal of the cards, and then we'll try the wheel, eh?" His breath fanned her face as he bent and pressed his damp mouth to her cheek. "And then, who knows? The night is young."

  He laughed as his hand moved over her hip, then lightly cupped her bottom. It was all done so quickly that it almost might not have happened, except that Francesca's flesh crawled beneath the silk of her gown.

  She stepped back as the Marques leaned toward the table, stepped back again as the croupier began dealing the cards, and then she turned and made her way through the crowd.

  Her teeth clamped together as she fell back against the wall. Wait until she found Charles, she thought, just wait until she found him and told him about what a "very nice old man" his pal, the Marques, really was.

  "It isn't easy, is it?"

  She spun toward the amused voice. She knew who it was, even before she saw that increasingly familiar, sar­donic smile.

  "Don't you have anything better to do than to follow me?" she said coldly.

  He grinned. "Such a chilly greeting, after all we have been to each other."

  "Did you hear what I said?"

  "How much did you get from the old boy? It looked pretty good for ten minutes' work."

  Francesca's eyes narrowed. "What?" She followed his gaze to her open evening purse and to the shiny chips dinting inside. Her head snapped up. "If you think I wanted him to give me-"

  "God knows you earned it."

  Color flooded her cheeks. "You don't know what you're talking about," she said, swinging away from him.

  "Don't I?" His hand shot out and caught her wrist. “Why didn't you tell me how things were with you and the Marques last night?"

  "Are you crazy? I'm not-"

  “Was that why you were so cautious with me?" His grasp tightened. "Or is the sleeping volcano routine part at the game?" His lips drew back from his teeth. "What's that old song, `Come on, Baby, Light My Fire?”

  Francesca's teeth gritted as she tried to twist free of him. "Get away from me," she spat.

  "Don't be silly." He smiled coolly. "Besides, I have an idea."

  "I don't know what you're talking about."

  "Don't you?" He stepped closer to her. "You're wasting your talent on that disgusting old man."

  She felt the blood drain from her face. "What?"

  "I don't disgust you, do I." It was a statement, not, a question. His eyes met hers, and what had happened between them last night burned in his dark irises like a hot flame. "No," he said softly, "we both know that I do not."

  "Let go of me," Francesca said. Her voice sounded breathless, as if she'd been running uphill. "Do you hear me? Let me go, or I'll-"

  "What the Marques doesn't know won't hurt him." He smiled a little at the sudden rise of color in her face. "Hell," he s
aid softly, "after a steady diet of the old boy, you're entitled to an evening's fun."

  Her hand twisted in his steely grasp. "You bastard," she whispered, suddenly understanding his meaning, "you-you…'

  "That's right, cara. Me." His smile vanished, and now she could see only the fire leaping in his midnight eyes. "Me in your bed, instead of the Marques." He stepped closer to her, until she felt the whisper of his breath against her cheek. "And we won't waste time standing around the Casino, pretending we need the spin of the wheel as a turn-on." His hand moved on her wrist, slipping lower until she felt the feathery brush of his fingers against hers. "All I have to do is look at you," he said thickly, "and I want you so badly I ache."

  "Are you crazy? When I tell my-

  "Just look at yourself," he whispered. "Your body is answering for you."

  She didn't have to look. She could feel what was hap­pening: her treacherous flesh was quickening as he spoke.

  "Let go of me," she said, hating the little sound of panic that threaded her voice. "Do you hear me? Let-"

  "Francesca."

  Charles's voice was like cold steel. Francesca's eyes swept to her stepbrother's face. He had come up beside them suddenly. He was talking to her, but his eyes were on the man standing beside her.

  "Charles." The air whooshed from her lungs; relief raced through her so quickly that her legs felt weak. "There you are," she said. "I was just going to-"

  "What the hell are you doing with Maximillian Donelli?" he demanded.

  "You mean you know this man, Charles? He-he..."

  Francesca fell silent. Her stepbrother wasn't paying the slightest attention to her, but neither was Maximillian Donelli. The two were, instead, staring at each other with unveiled hatred. She thought suddenly of films she'd seen of two jungle cats facing off.

  "Spencer." Donelli's voice was like the strike of a sword on a stone. "I knew you had to be here. But I kept hoping your instinct for self-preservation would keep you from crawling out from under your rock."

  A muscle knotted in Charles's cheek. "Go on," he said with a tight smile, "be as glib as you like, if it makes you feel better. It's just too bad that fast mouth of yours can't stop your company from bleeding."

  Donelli's lips drew back from his teeth. "Pinning you against that wall and rearranging your face won't stop it, either, but that may not keep me from doing it."

  Charles paled beneath his health-club tan, but his smile didn't waver. "I suppose gutter talk's the best one can expect from a man like you." He looked at Francesca. "We're leaving."

  "Why not admit the truth? It's the same for you. You want me. You want to feel my mouth on yours, my hands on your skin."

  His gaze dropped to her parted lips, then to the swift rise and fall of her breasts.

  She nodded. There were a dozen questions to ask, but she knew better than to ask even one of them now. "Fine."

  Donelli's brows rose. "Leaving?" He looked at her, his mouth quirked in amusement. "Without the Marques?"

  She could feel her face blazing, but she forced herself to meet his insolent smile.

  "That's right," she said evenly. "Disappointed?"

  "Very. The old man was a bad choice." His smile became fixed as he looked at her stepbrother. "But Charlie here makes him look like a Christmas present. Surely you can do better."

  Francesca heard the hiss of her stepbrother's breath. She stepped forward quickly and put her hand on his arm. It was like being swept downstream toward a roaring falls, she thought wildly. Something terrible was coming, and there didn't seem any way to stop it.

  "My name is Francesca Drury," she said softly. "Charles is my stepbrother."

  She saw surprise and something more register in Maximillian Donelli's face, and then his eyes went blank.

  "Really." His voice was without inflection.

  "Yes. Really. And now, if you'll excuse us..."

  Her hand clamped down on Charles's arm, and she began walking. He fell in stiffly beside her, and she held her breath. It was not over yet; every instinct told her so. The door was getting nearer. Only ten steps more. Nine. Eight. Seven­

  "Spencer." Donelli's voice cracked after them like a whip. She felt Charles shudder.

  "Don't answer him," she pleaded.

  "I must," he said through his teeth. "People are watching."

  "Let them. Charles, please."

  But he was already turning around. What choice was there for her but to do the same?

  "What do you want, Donelli?"

  "How would you like to try your hand at the tables?"

  Charles blinked. "What the hell are you talking about?"

  Donelli shrugged as he strolled toward them, his powerful shoulders moving easily beneath his expens­ively tailored dinner jacket.

  "I thought we might play a friendly little game of poker." His voice was lazy, almost dismissive.

  "Poker?" Charles repeated incredulously.

  Donelli nodded. "Yes. It might be interesting, if we played for the right stakes."

  Charles's breath whistled between his teeth, and Francesca stepped in front of him.

  "Leave us alone," she said in a low voice.

  "It's too bad, bellissima," Donelli said softly. "If you had only come with me last night, we could have made the world stand still."

  Heat flooded her skin. "I'd never have gone any­where with you."

  His lips drew back from his teeth. "No?" he said, laughing. He bent and kissed her on the mouth, hard and fast, and then he stepped back. "It's been a pleasure seeing you again, Spencer," he said, before turning and melting into the crowd.

  Francesca swung back to Charles. "Don't go after him," she said, but she needn't have bothered. Her step­brother was standing absolutely still, staring blindly after Donelli, his face distorted with hatred.

  "Charles?" Her voice was a whisper. "Charles-who is that man?"

  "He's a son of a bitch, that's who he is." Charles's voice cracked. "He tried to steal Spencer's from us, but he failed. I got the better of him."

  "What did you do? Did you bring charges?" Her voice trembled. "You should have. A man like that..."

  Charles took her hand and tucked it into the curve of his arm. "And what did you do, sister, dear?" he said coldly. "No, don't deny anything. The details can wait until later. Now, all you have to do is smile."

  "I want to go back to the hotel, Charles."

  He squeezed her hand, hard enough so that she almost cried out.

  "Smile, I said. That's right. Now, walk beside me calmly. . : "

  "Please. I just want to-"

  "People are watching, Francesca. Smile, so it all looks like an amusing joke. Good. And now we're going to play roulette, just as if nothing were wrong. Do you understand?"

  She didn't. But then, she didn't understand much of what had just happened, she thought as she sank down on a stool beside her stepbrother.

  Charles had said Maximillian Donelli had tried to steal Spencer's and failed, that he had got the better of him.

  But it was hard to imagine Donelli failing at anything. And-God forgive her for her disloyalty-it was even harder to picture Charles getting the better of the man.

  For a moment, Francesca felt the heat of his kiss on her mouth, and she touched her hand lightly to her lips. Her skin prickled, and she looked up, straight into Maximillian Donelli's eyes. He was standing on the other side of the gaming table, watching her with an intimate smile on his hard, handsome face.

  Francesca's breath caught in her throat. Clearly, the evening wasn't over yet.

  CHAPTER THREE

  "MESDAMES et messieurs, faites vos jeux."

  It was the croupier's call that set her free. Francesca gave herself a little shake and dragged her eyes from Maximillian Donelli's. She realized that Charles was talking to her, his tone slightly impatient, but she had no idea what he was saying.

  "...know how?"

  "I'm sorry, Charles." She swallowed. "I didn't hear what you said. Do I know how to
do what?"

  "Rien ne va plus."

  "I was asking if you remembered how to bet the wheel, but it doesn't matter now. You've missed your chance."

  "I don't much care. Can't we just leave?"

  A muscle twitched in his cheek. "No, we cannot. I told you, people are watching. How will it look if that bastard gets the best of us?"

  "What does it matter? Besides, how can he get the best of us if everybody knows he's a thief?"

  Her stepbrother grimaced. "For God's sake; will you stop being so dense? The man's far too slick for anybody to know anything he doesn't want them to know. You don't see a sign on his forehead, do you?"

  "But you said-"

  "Dix-sept!" The croupier's voice rang out as the rou­lette wheel came to a stop. "Noir, impair, et manque."

  "Seventeen," Charles muttered, "black, odd, and low." He gave a sharp bark of laughter. "Which means I lose on all counts."

  "Charles-"

  "Get that tone out of your voice, Francesca," he said sharply. "I told you, we're staying."

  "Faites vos jeux, s'il vous plait,"

  Charles leaned forward and plonked down several stacks of chips. The croupier spun the wheel and tossed the little ball, and he watched intently as it clattered along its path. There were murmurs from the crowd, even a soft groan as it came to rest on red thirty-two.

  "Trente-deux. Rouge, Noir, pair, et passe."

  Charles gave a little laugh as his chips were raked away. "Not doing very well, am I?"

  "All the more reason to leave," Francesca said quietly.

  "We leave after Donelli, not a second sooner." His voice roughened. "And the bastard's still here."

  He hadn't needed to tell her that. She could feel those dark eyes on her; Donelli's steady gaze made her skin feel feverish.

  "And now he's playing." Her stepbrother's voice sounded tight as a drum. "Good. It will be a pleasure to watch him lose."

  But Donelli didn't lose, not then, not later. Like some illustrative mathematics equation, Charles's stack of chips seemed to diminish in direct proportion to the growth of the other man's. Maximillian Donelli seemed unaware; his lazy gaze drifted from the wheel to Francesca, never once coming to rest on her stepbrother. But Charles had begun to glare at him across the table. Spots of color rose in his cheeks each time Donelli won.